Lipstick-Covered Magnet
by influenzae
Summary: For want of a nail: Dee moved to California after getting out of the mental hospital in 1997. Five years later, she returns to Philadelphia for Thanksgiving and reunites with Dennis in an unexpected way.


**2003**

It's one in the morning when Dee lands in the Philadelphia International Airport for Thanksgiving weekend. The flight out of Los Angeles had been delayed for inclement weather, so her day had involved a whole lot of waiting around for the plane to arrive. Tack on some turbulence and another delay in Minneapolis of all godforsaken places and all in all her transit time added up to twelve hours. Just enough time for her to have gotten drunk and sober again several times over. Unfortunately, her final flight had cut off her whiskey intake around 11 PM, so now she has to deal with a bustling airport, cold weather, a late night, and a pounding headache. God, traveling is the worst. If she could afford her own rent, she'd never come home to visit. Price of being a struggling actress.

Barbara has been living in a condo ever since Dee's dad had handed her divorce papers, and there's an implicit assumption that Dee is not allowed to stay the night. So, single-night carry-on bag in hand, Dee steps out into the brisk winter air and heads for the next bus station. Her hotel is all the way on the other side of the city, and like hell is she walking that far.

Streetlamps and neon lights cast shadows on the faces of the people surrounding her; they too are headed with singular purpose towards houses or hotels to spend time with beloved (or tolerated) relatives. Dee attempts to people watch for several moments in case it would give her any ideas for some new characters, but the crowd is moving too fast and the lighting is too spotty for her to get a good idea of what anyone looks like.

The crowd starts to thin after several blocks, and with this comes a sense of unease. Philadelphia isn't kind to strangers at night, and the cold of the winter hasn't kept shady looking people off of the streets. Every other face is cast in shadow either via a hoodie or standing just out of sight of a streetlight. Dee tries to avoid eye contact with any of the faces she can see until – No, it can't be.

Dee blinks twice, then three times, and then realizes she is standing still in the middle of a sidewalk and pissing off all the people around her. Before she can decide how to bolt before he sees her, it is too late. Dee's estranged twin brother is staring her right in the eyes, mouth agape. The cigarette that had been in his mouth moments before is now dangling precariously between the tips of his index and middle fingers.

The logical part of Dee, the part that made her leave this godforsaken city to start a life somewhere new, tells her to keep walking. The primal part of Dee, the ugly, needy part of herself that she put to rest when she left for California, propels her back into Dennis's orbit.

"Hey sis," he murmurs.

Dee doesn't answer back for a minute; the way Dennis looks up close is a lot to take in. His hair is too-long and looks a day overdue for a wash. His face is caked clownishly with makeup. He is wearing heels and fishnets with short shorts and no shirt at all.

"The last five years have not been kind to you, huh?" she says.

Dennis takes a drag on his cigarette, and blows the smoke out on a sigh. "Speak for yourself. That dye job is atrocious. 32 years old and you haven't accepted that red makes you look like carrot top."

"First off, my hair looks great," says Dee, "And second – Dennis, are you a hooker? Really?"

A hint of shrillness creeps into her voice in her unchecked disbelief, and Dennis winces. "I'm not a hooker. I exchange services for money. Entrepreneurship, Dee. You'd know a thing or two about it if you hadn't failed business in college."

Dee scoffs. "Oh screw off. Don't try to act superior. I'm not the one selling my body on the street."

Dennis takes a thoughtful drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke out slowly. "What are you doing, then?"

"I'm an actress," says Dee. Dennis smiles.

"I haven't seen you on TV lately. What are you actually doing?" he asks. Just like Dennis to take the wind out of her sails.

"I work nights at a bar," she says. "But during the day I go to a lot of auditions and I have totally been on TV."

"What channel?" asks Dennis.

"Public access," admits Dee. "But Los Angeles Public Access is a pretty big deal."

"Did the channel pay you to work for them?" Dennis throws the cigarette on the ground, and stomps on it with his gaudy heel.

"No," says Dee. "But exposure in LA can sometimes be more valuable than money."

Dennis laughs. "God, at least I make people pay me before they use me."

Anger boils in her stomach; a healed wound has been rubbed raw. Three seconds into reuniting with her brother on the street and already she's having fantasies about putting an axe through his skull. Goddammit.

"You're such an asshole, Dennis."

Infuriatingly, he shrugs. Then, as a chilly breeze blows past them, he visibly shivers and wraps one of his arms around his bare chest. His hand is chapped and bleeding from the cold. Typical Dennis – infuriating and pathetic within the span of five seconds.

"You must be cold," says Dennis in a sad attempt to project his misery onto Dee. "Do you want to continue this conversation somewhere warmer?"

As if to encourage Dee's self-destruction, a larger and colder gust of wind nearly blows Dee's overnight bag out of her hand.

"Let's go to a bar."

The dive they end up in is one that reeks of a wobbly familiarity borne from a storied history of stolen ID's and bar-hopping. College kids in cars packed so tight that people were shoved in the trunk with a gallon of pure grain alcohol for company. Halloween of 1995, 18 and brace-free, Dee sat in the trunk with a spotty kid named Brendan who was prettier when she was hammered. He went as himself that year, which back then she thought was clever. The rabbit ears that Dee had chosen for her slutty costume slipped down each time the car hit a bump, and she and Brendan laughed about it in between bars. Around one-am that night, Dee opened the trunk of the moving car and threw up in the street. Her bunny ears flung off of her head, and landed in the pile of vomit. Once they had managed to wrangle the door shut, Brendan didn't talk to her for the rest of the night.

Dennis chews his lip, and taps his fingers on the bar. He keeps giving the barkeep pointed looks to get him to come over, but the barkeep seems very intent on doing anything except looking back. The silence as they play this stupid mind game is somehow more awkward than Halloween of 1995.

Dee rustles around in her purse and mutters, "For Christ's sake." She puts her card down on the counter. Dennis glares at her, and covers the card with his hand.

"I will pay as soon as Adam stops pretending he doesn't see me," he says a little too loudly.

"I only see people who don't bail on their tabs," Adam responds while cleaning the same glass a third time.

"He's not paying," says Dee. She pries Dennis's hand off of her card. "Two vodkas on the rocks and a tequila shot."

Adam walks over, bringing the scent of stale beer and CK one along with him. "Can I see some ID?"

Dee pulls her wallet out of her purse, and flashes her ID at him. "I'm 25."

Adam turns the card over in his hand, and checks the name on it against her ID. He scratches his stubble with one of his meaty hands.

"Thought you were only doing dudes, nowadays, Dennis," he says.

"This is my sister," says Dennis through gritted teeth.

"Alright well. Two vodkas on the rocks and a tequila shot for you and your. . .sister," says Adam.

"Even if I wasn't though, I still wouldn't be paying him to have sex with me," says Dee as Adam walks away, shaking his head. "Just wanted to make that clear."

"Unbelievable," mutters Dennis. His hands have moved to his lap, and are clenching in the strangling motion as familiar to Dee as her own anger. Five years ago, Dee would have instinctively grabbed them and rubbed his palms with her thumbs until he looked less feral. Now, she waits, and moments later he's doing it for himself.

"Only doing dudes, huh?" she asks after Adam slides their drinks over to her. Dennis swirls the drink around, and takes a sip.

"Better for business," he says. Another sip. "You would not believe the number of closeted bankers and lawyers who want a five-minute fuck with a boy in heels. I make my best money with that demographic."

Dee takes a shot of her tequila and winces.

"I've lived in Los Angeles for five years and that's the gayest thing I've ever heard."

"It has nothing to do with sexual orientation," says Dennis. "It's Marketing 101."

A pink tinge colors his cheeks anyway. Something like shame has caught up to Dennis at one-thirty AM in a dive bar on Thanksgiving morning.

"Did you finish college?" asks Dee.

Dennis chugs the rest of his drink until it's gone. He wipes his mouth with the butt of his hand.

"No. Did you?"

"No," says Dee.

Dennis huffs out a laugh. "Sweet Dee, what have you been doing with all this time?"

"I told you. I work at a bar, and I've been acting –"

Dennis looks into her eyes, and her heart stops as if he's clutched it in his fist.

"Those are cute stories to tell to mom and dad, but you wouldn't be coming home if you could hold down a job. Did you quit to come visit or did you get fired?"

Dee finishes her vodka, and drops the thick glass down on the counter with a clunk.

"Two days ago I double dropped as many tables as possible and then I flipped the manager the bird on the way out." she says. Dennis gives her a delighted look that, combined with his waxy skin, the dim bar, and his thin face, makes him look demented.

"Oh shit. How long did you have that job for?"

"A month. It sucked," says Dee. She clinks her glass against the bar. "Two more."

Adam fills two glasses, and slides them over. "Fifteen minutes to close."

Dee chugs her drink; best to get drunk before closing time.

"Did you do porn in LA?" asks Dennis.

Dee wrinkles her nose. "Ew, gross. Why the hell would I do that?"

Dennis shrugs. "Food. Rent. Drugs. Alcohol. The market is booming out there for sex workers. I knew a girl who I worked with a while back – "

"Dennis, if you talk about hooking as if it's a great business idea one more time I will strangle you so hard that your eyes will pop out of your sockets."

A haughty look appears on his face. He picks up his drink, and downs half. Then he swirls it in his glass, and gives it a contemplative gaze. Dennis gives her the cheers motion, and drinks the rest.

"Five til," says Adam in a weary voice.

Dee's bag catches Dennis's eye.

"Where were you headed? Is mom letting you stay with her?"

"No," admits Dee. "I'm staying in a hotel."

Dennis hops off his barstool in a surprisingly graceful motion, given the height of his heels. He extends his hand to Dee, and she takes it as she gets down too.

"We should get going," he says.

 **2000**

 _Dee is holding a bloodied hand underneath lukewarm water and cursing under her breath. On the floor, several feet away is a skein of thread, a box of embroidering needles, and a bloodied piece of embroidery. This is the third time today that she's stabbed herself with the needle but the first time it's gotten onto her project. Dammit dammit DAMMIT._

 _The sink she's draining blood into is full of unwashed dishes. It seems impossible that Paul could make this many dishes, and yet every morning there is more. His apartment is one of the few that has a dishwasher and still – dishes everywhere._

 _When she's wrapped a paper towel around her hand (and, again, empty roll because Paul can't just fucking replace it) she searches for bandages. They're not in the first miscellaneous drawer. Or the second. Or the third. Finally, she finds a single band-aid in the fourth miscellaneous drawer. It has Winnie the Pooh on it. She and Paul don't have children. It's another relic left behind by his last wife._

 _Dee sits back down on the chair she'd hurriedly deserted when she started bleeding. She unwraps the bandage, and places it over a small wound producing an absurd amount of blood. Pooh bear, holding a honey pot, smiles back at her. She always liked Tigger better. She never liked children._

 _Her bandaging finished, she inspects her finger, flexing it in various different directions. It's the left hand that was stabbed, and when raised up, her wedding ring sparkles in the light. Paul's home has a lot of windows, and the California sun reliably shines through them 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Supposedly, anyway. Dee and Paul were only together for three months before they got married. It's been another month since; there's still time for the sun to stop shining._

 _Dee's embroidery is going to say 'Home is Where the Heart Is' when it's finished. She picks up the hoop, and rubs the still-damp blood stain. Then, she throws it forcefully at the wall. The hoop breaks in two. Stupid project._

 _This morning's newspaper is still on the coffee table, and it seems miles away. Paul always takes it apart before she can get to it in the morning, and his unraveling makes it difficult to read. There are casting calls in the Classifieds, ones that are looking for thin, tan women with blonde hair. Dee has been to these casting calls. As it turns out, there are a lot of women in Los Angeles who are thin and tan and blonde._

 _Dee isn't a famous actress or comedian yet. She's twenty-three, broke, and can't hold down a job. But hey, she's married, so she must have done something right._

 _Rebecca is nineteen years old, thin, messy-haired and obsessed with red lipstick. She works as a waitress at a local chain restaurant, and sometimes she's still in her uniform when Dennis visits. Her eye makeup is too dark; she's not old enough to have toned it down yet. She has a Lit poster on her wall above her bed, and one of the top corners is always folded over, tape side out. Rebecca likes alternative music and Cosmopolitan magazine and Daria. But more than anything, Rebecca likes E._

 _Rebecca always gets her stash of E on Friday nights. She sells it in clubs wholesale on Saturday, which is where Dennis first met her. She slipped a pill into his mouth with a kiss, and later tha night, they fucked for hours. She was eighteen then; her birthday was two weeks ago. Dennis bought her cocaine as a present._

 _Tonight, Rebecca greets him at the door in her pajamas. Her tank top accentuates the curves of her body, and the pants, while baggy, add an air of intimacy to the proceedings. Her makeup is smeared; she hasn't washed her face. She smiles when Dennis comes to the door, and gives him with a kiss._

" _Hey, honey," she whispers into his ear._

 _Dennis trails a finger down her spine. "Hey, babe."_

 _She pulls him into the apartment by the hand. He shuts the door behind them, then sits down on a beanbag chair. Rebecca sits on his lap, and leans forward to grab her bag of E off of the coffee table. Dennis wraps his arms around her stomach in sham intimacy. His fingers tingle at their closeness to her stash. He could steal it at any moment; she's vulnerable and soft and would be easily overpowered. Dennis squeezes her tighter, and her breathing constricts, just a little. Delicious._

 _She's blathering on about her work or her dumb friends and when Dennis has had enough of listening to it he kisses her neck until she giggles and moans and reaches behind herself to push Dennis's face further into her neck. Rebecca wears flowery perfume that she buys at drugstores. It's overpowering. Dennis moves his kisses to her ears and hairline, where her true musk lies. He bites her ear, and she giggles. Her cartilage is pliable between his teeth._

 _Rebecca finally stands, and turns around with a huge grin on her face. She rustles in her bag and pulls out two pills, then places the bag back down on the coffee table._

" _Open your mouth," she says, and Dennis obeys. Rebecca lays her own tablet on her tongue, and savors it for a moment. Then she holds out her hand. "Let's go to bed."_

 _A warmth spreads through Dennis's chest, fills his perpetual hole. He laughs and it's genuine. The two of them throw their clothes off at breakneck speed, leaving a trail behind them on the way to her bed. Dennis tackles her onto the bed, and pins her down._

" _I've got you," he says in a throaty voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Rebecca's full length mirror. The outline of their bodies distorts and comes back together. The single negative of his encounters with Rebecca is that there are no cameras around to record the proceedings. Then again, adding objectivity to the heightened experience of the whole occasion might ruin it._

 _The two of them rut together like animals, visceral pleasure almost too much to handle. There's never better sex than sex on E; no other orgasms compare. Dennis slips his dick in without any foreplay; it's tight and hot and Rebecca winces when it goes in, as always. She gets wetter the longer he thrusts, and low moans emanate from her throat._

 _Objectively, Rebecca isn't his type. Her face is too angular, her breasts are small, and her hips are bony. She has never given him the satisfaction of overcoming her resistance; her pussy is always open. Rebecca is too young to say no. He has to create the tension – so much effort. Dennis pins her hands above her head. In response, Rebecca giggles. He closes his eyes, and cums as he imagines her resistance._

 _After, Rebecca curls up by Dennis's side. The warmth in Dennis's chest allows for some affection._

" _I love you," she says. "I think you're my favorite boyfriend I've ever had."_

 _Dennis says nothing, and pretends he's fallen asleep._

 **2003**

It's colder now that they've gotten out of the bar. A few delicate snowflakes fall from the sky every so often. It's not enough to dust the pavement, but it adds a certain softness to the city anyway. Some of the crystals rest on Dennis's curls and shine for a moment before melting. He dabs away the snowflakes that land on his face daintily with the back of his pointer finger, careful to not smudge his makeup.

"Still working?" asks Dee.

Dennis gives her a confused look. "No. Why?"

"You were just –" she touches her face, mirroring him.

"Just because I want to look professional doesn't mean I'm for sale," says Dennis, as if it's obvious. "A Wall-Street banker wouldn't be caught dead outside in sweats, but that doesn't mean he wants to broker a deal every time he leaves his house."

"Well yeah but a Wall-Street banker works in an office," says Dee. "Hookers sell themselves on the street."

Dennis rolls his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair to shake out some of the moisture, and then gives her a patronizing look as if she's an idiot.

"Do you really think I'm making money standing around by the goddamn airport?"

Dee rubs her face with her palm. She's too tired for bullshit. "I think it's weird that you're selling your body for cash. Somehow the logistics of your work didn't cross my mind when I found you in fishnets and wearing lipstick."

Dennis sighs. He's tired too. "I go on Craigslist. Businessmen and tourists post on there when they pass through." Dennis smiles, wry. "You would not believe the number of men who fuck me while telling me how straight they are."

Dee cracks a smile too. "Oh I bet. Fooling themselves by fucking a man wearing makeup – classic."

They stop at a corner. According to a sign, there's a bus stop in each direction. She frowns; in the hurry to leave the airport, she forgot that there were specific bus schedules and that she should have picked up a pamphlet.

"Where are you headed?" asks Dennis. It occurs for the first time that of course he wouldn't know; he didn't get off the plane with her and he wasn't going to her destination. Just like Dennis, taking up a seat in her life without asking.

"The Radisson," says Dee.

Dennis points to the right with his thumb. "We want that one, then."

Dee nods. Once they've both jaywalked across the empty street, Dee asks, "So, are you gay now?"

"I contain multitudes, Dee," says Dennis, obscurely.

"The guy at the bar said you were only banging dudes," says Dee.

Dennis scoffs. "Adam doesn't know shit. He doesn't even sell IPAs."

Before Dee can even open her mouth to say that he still hasn't answered her question, Dennis says, "I think it's my turn for some questions. Why are you here?"

"I'm visiting family," says Dee, defensively. "It's what you do on Thanksgiving."

"Bullshit," says Dennis. "You'd stick a hot poker in your eye before you'd visit mom for company. How much money do you need? What is it for?"

Five years ago, his interrogation of her shame would have been filled with glee. Now he sounds hoarse, hungry. A psychological wound in Dennis is bleeding, and Dee's information is his tourniquet.

"I got a divorce and I can't afford rent with my roommate," says Dee. "Mom and dad said they'd pay my rent if I visited for Thanksgiving. I'm sure all they want to do is gloat about how inevitable my failure was."

Dennis nods. "We did all warn you."

"Says the actual hooker."

Dennis closes his eyes, clearly resisting the urge to roll them. Only vital information would give him this much restraint.

"How long were you married?" he asks.

"Two months," says Dee.

"And how long were you married the first time?"

Dee scowls at him. "Who said anything about this being my second marriage?"

"I'm your twin, Dee," says Dennis. "I know you better than you know yourself."

They arrive at the bus stop; the bus isn't present. Dee leans against one of its walls, and sighs.

"First marriage was six months," she says. "He cheated on me."

"Just like a man," says Dennis.

"I'm pretty sure my second husband was gay," admits Dee.

Dennis laughs. "A closeted gay person in LA in the 21st century? That's the first time I've ever heard that one."

"I know, right?" says Dee, cracking a fake smile as an uncomfortable weight settles in her stomach. "I cheated on him all the time."

"Atta girl," says Dennis.

The bus turns onto their corner, neon lights displaying the names of the stops. It brakes with a screeching halt, and opens the door. Dennis steps onto the steep stairs first, and then holds out his hand.

"Need a lift?" he asks.

Dee grabs it, and pulls herself in. Before she can pull out her card, Dennis has paid for her ticket.

The crowd on the bus is thin, and the air reeks of depression and desperation. Several young men dressed similarly to Dennis are staring out the windows forlornly; one of them is scraped and has a black eye. Two scantily clad women are sitting in the back and whispering amongst themselves. An enormous, filthy man wearing a janitorial uniform is taking up two seats and snoring loudly. To top off the sorry scene, a thin young man in tattered clothing is shaking his leg up and down as he mutters to himself and darts his eyes around the bus.

Honestly, in comparison to everyone else, Dennis looks like a Victoria's Secret angel.

"I suggest you don't make eye-contact with anyone and pretend you're asleep," mutters Dennis as they sit down far away from everyone else. "I don't recognize the faces of any of these people, but they may recognize me and might have a lot of very annoying questions."

Dee gives him a withering look. "Dennis, I'm not shutting my eyes on a bus at 2:15 in the morning. That's a recipe for getting raped."

"Suit yourself," says Dennis. He sinks into his chair, and closes his eyes. Typical.

Dee pinches him "Ow!" He gives her a wounded look. "What did you do that for?"

"Because the fact that you're not worried about being stabbed by that crack head is insane," she answers.

"Do you have crack on you?" asks Dennis.

"No," says Dee. "Why on earth would I have crack on me? The TSA didn't even let me in with my shampoo."

"Well, if you don't have any crack, then the crackhead is going to leave you alone," says Dennis, as if knowing the inner workings of a crackhead's mind should be common knowledge.

"How on earth can you assume that?" says Dee. Then she pauses, and looks Dennis up and down. He's too thin, and there are bags under his eyes. Combined with the job, well – "Dennis. . .are you a crack whore?"

"No!" he says too loudly. The boy with the bruised eye looks over at them with a long-suffering glare before turning away to look out the window again. Dennis tries again, more quietly this time.

"No. I don't smoke crack."

Dee raises her eyebrows at the protest. "I'm just saying that you seem to know a whole lot about how crackheads think is all."

Dennis sighs. "I've smoked crack before, but that doesn't make me a crack whore, ok? I mean who hasn't smoked a little crack in their lifetime?"

"I haven't," says Dee.

"Oh look at Queen Dee, too good for crack," says Dennis. He folds his arms around himself defensively.

"Most people haven't smoked crack," says Dee. "It's a junkie drug."

The crackhead, clearly on alert for any mention of crack, turns to them and says, "Hey, you guys got crack?"

"No!" say Dee and Dennis simultaneously. The crackhead wilts and turns away.

"Is crack the reason mom and dad cut you off?" asks Dee.

A pink tinge blossoms on Dennis's cheeks. "Who said anything about mom and dad cutting me off?"

"They did," says Dee. "Every time I've called in the past year they've talked about how I'm a leech but at least I'm not you."

Dennis clenches his fists, and his face hardens. "Mom and dad are liars. I left by choice."

"To become a hooker?" asks Dee. His fists clench so tight that the whites of his knuckles are showing. For a moment, he shakes with emotion so intense that Dee glances at all of the fire escapes on the bus in case he carries a knife in his short-shorts to cut anyone who crosses him. Then, all of the fight leaves his body as soon as it came. A look of bone-deep exhaustion appears on his face.

"It seems we've established that our local crackhead isn't going to kill you, so I'm going to sleep now," says Dennis with flat affect.

Dennis closes his eyes, and Dee doesn't protest. Whatever exhaustion has come over Dennis can't be cured with sleep, but the least she can do after asking so many questions is to let him try. She glances over at the crackhead. He shivers, and doesn't look back.

 **2000**

 _The ceiling in Paul's bedroom is poorly caulked in exactly two places. One is on the far-left corner, a miniscule gap between the wall and the ceiling. It's the byproduct of rushed construction. The other crack runs horizontally above their bed for about three inches. The caulking here is worn; it cracked with age and, possibly, water damage. Any other fault in the construction of the ceiling of Paul's bedroom is obstructed by a hideous popcorn ceiling. If it wouldn't eat up Paul's security deposit, she'd scrape each individual hideous speckle off of the ceiling and paint it flat and white._

 _Dee has become intimately familiar with many of Paul's other rooms as well. For instance, some of the tile in the bathroom is misshapen, and the patterns don't make any sense. His leather couch is sunken in, and some of the stiches bulge. Paul's kitchen table is sanded smoothly, but it wobbles, just a little, when he bends her over it and fucks her._

 _In fact, the only thing Dee isn't intimately familiar with in Paul's apartment is the experience of having an orgasm inside of it._

 _Paul's ex-wife didn't complete her move until the day after Dee and Paul got married at a secular chapel in the heart of Los Angeles. Before then, Dee and Paul only fucked in her apartment, far away from the prying eyes of his wife and child. He'd call her at midnight after his family was asleep and moan into the phone about how much he needed her right then. Dee would whisper back into the phone, "Come over then," and a few times, he did. Most of the time, Paul would take off work for a day and bring flowers or lie about a business trip and stay in Dee's apartment all weekend, fucking her and smoking weed. He'd say "You are the most beautiful girl I've ever met," and something inside Dee's chest would swell like a sponge in water. She'd fuck him then in any position where she could look at his eyes and see his primal hunger for her body. Dee got an IUD and religiously took birth control and told him that, unlike his rigid wife, the risk of him cumming inside her was worth it. She swallowed because she was a cool girl, his cool girl, and once, when he came on her chest, she let it grow cold and dry on her until he fell asleep in her bed._

 _Dee didn't cum then, either, but the deep satisfaction of his untethered want more than made up for it. Now, however –_

 _Paul grunts as he pushes into her barely-wet pussy. His eyes are closed, so he doesn't see how painful it is this time. She's going to be sore in the morning, and the stink of his sweat will linger on her skin long after he has left for work. Tonight, they're having sex with the lights dimmed rather than off, and her wandering eyes can't help but notice that some of the wiry hairs on his chest are going grey. She reaches out to touch one, and pretends she's playing with his nipple when she grabs a single hair between her thumb and forefinger. He moans, and she fakes one in response._

 _A sharp pain stabs Dee in the chest as she continues to fake pleasure. Sometimes on morning cable, there are news stories about old men who die during sex, mid-thrust, from a heart-attack or stroke. Dee grew up with Dennis, king of melodramatic anxiety and panic attacks, so she knows better than to think that's what's happening to her. Most of the time._

 _Finally, Paul cums with a groan. His warm cum fills her, and her faked orgasm is followed by a yearn to shower and douche. However, Paul has other plans. He rolls off of her, and holds her in his arms, gently, like their love is still precious and new. Up close, Dee can see the wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. It was Paul's fifty-first birthday last week. She gave him anal as a gift._

 _"That was really something," says Paul. He strokes her back with one hand and traces the contour of her breast with the other. Paul looks at her with as much awe as the first time after they had sex, but it doesn't make her swell anymore. Dee is dry on the inside, a prune wrinkled by the California sun._

 _Apropos of nothing, Dee wonders if her brother is married too._

" _What are you thinking about?" Paul asks._

 _The impossibility of truthfulness yawns between them. "Just how great that was," she lies._

 _He chuckles. "It really was."_

 _Dee hums in response. She traces a finger around his nipple. He has perfectly round nipples, pink and hairless. Once, she covered each of them in a Hershey's kiss, and ate them off his chest while she jerked him off._

 _Paul clears his throat. "Madeline is getting really grown up," he says. "I saw her today. Nothing like having a kid."_

 _"I bet," says Dee. "She can be a real handful. I remember being a teenager."_

 _"Madeline is eight," corrects Paul._

 _"Whatever," says Dee, yawning. She shuts her eyes, willing her body to cool down in the aftermath of sex._

 _"You know, they say that sperm is healthiest before the age of sixty –"_

 _Dee's eyes jerk open. "We're not having a baby, Paul," she says, coldly._

 _Paul sighs. "I just was wondering if you had changed your mind. A lot of women do."_

 _Dee rolls onto her side away from Paul's arms._

" _Stop wondering,"_

 _The steel toilet in Dennis's jail cell reeks like the SEPTA. Normally, he'd never deign to rest his face against something so incredibly filthy. However, he doesn't really have a choice, given the circumstances. He heaves for about the thirtieth time that morning, and caustic bile comes out of his mouth and nose. Dennis spits and squeezes his nose into the toilet until his system is clean and clear. He flushes the toilet, but doesn't get off the floor. Already the spins have returned; he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, and wills them to leave him the fuck alone._

" _Just wait until I get out of here!" he cries hoarsely to nobody in particular. "I'm going to sue all of you sick degenerates for emotional damages until you are destitute! You hear me? This isn't over!"_

" _Shut the hell up, psycho!" yells the person in the cell next to him._

" _No, you shut up!" yells Dennis. "I'll sue you extra!"_

 _A wave of nausea overcomes him. He leans into the toilet, and pukes up bile again._

" _Sure you will," says someone else as Dennis heaves. Typical – fighting when he's unable to fight back._

 _Dennis's arrest is a blur of violence and fear and rage. There was a knife involved, bloodless but collected as evidence all the same. Bruises are blossoming on his arms, and his nose is broken. His left eye is tender to the touch, and the back of his head aches. Furniture breaks – his own. Two men: one attacker and one on piss-poor defense. Rebecca's boyfriend and Mac. Police storm in and taze him until he falls on the ground, limp. An unflattering mugshot, fingerprinting, and unfair imprisonment._

 _Unlike him, Rebecca's boyfriend has gotten off scot-free. Dennis vaguely remembers shouted accusations of stalking; all lies. The man is possessive of Rebecca, plain and simple. For the past week, he's been answering all of her phone calls for her. The rage in his voice is honestly sickening; he's clearly abusing her and yet nobody is doing a single thing to stop it. Meanwhile, Dennis is booked over the simple fact that he has unfinished business with Rebecca. Namely, she needs to give a proper explanation as to why she cut off Dennis suddenly other than the lie of "My friends think you're creepy." Clearly this is a vindictive move, and one that needs to be atoned for._

 _The real reason that Rebecca turned him away, the one she won't admit, is that she is a greedy, selfish, narcissistic person. When push comes to shove, all she cares about is hoarding her stupid designer drugs and fucking anyone who smiles in her general direction. Their relationship wasn't dead for three days before her new boyfriend, Joe, came onto the scene. He probably fucked her in the wet spot that Dennis had left behind. The thought is enough to cause Dennis's stomach to turn and turn and turn –_

 _When he heaves this time, nothing comes up. It's a goddamn Christmas miracle._

 **2001**

 _Dennis's first dick wasn't in a cheap hotel room with a flickering lamp intermittently causing spots to appear in his vision. He'd been in college, halfway to drunk, and a blonde man with a wide, toothy smile had taken him by the hand. His breath smelled of strawberry liquor, and his hair was surprisingly soft in Dennis's hands. They laid on Dennis's bed together, bare-chested, sprawled on each other haphazardly. "What kind of shampoo do you use?" Dennis slurred into his partner's neck. "You have, like, the softest hair I've ever felt, man."_

 _His partner laughed; the breaths tickled the hair by Dennis's ear._

" _L'Oréal."_

" _Lies," said Dennis. "Strips the hair from the follicle down."_

 _Dennis trailed his fingers down, lightly touching chest, stomach, pubic bone, He laced his fingers in the thatch of hair beneath, and his partner took a sharp breath which segued into a low moan._

" _Your hands are cold."_

 _Dennis's heart beat in his ears, his throat._

" _How about I use my mouth then?" he said. Dennis kissed his partner on his stubbly chin, on his bobbing Adam's apple. His dick, halfway to hard before, became fully erect at the masculinity of it all. He filed this away for later when his partner moaned and stroked the back of his neck._

" _Yes," he answered._

 _New Year's Day of year one of the new millennium, Dennis is throat deep on a businessman's dick. Turns out Craigslist is useful for more than selling his dresser to pay for a security deposit._

 _This time, Dennis knows his partner's name. He peeked at his driver's license while he was in the bathroom putting away his toiletries and brushing his teeth. It's Peter, occupation: salesman. He's in town for a conference and desperate for a quick fuck. The ring on his finger yanks painfully against the hair on top of Dennis's head as he face-fucks him so hard that for seconds at a time, Dennis has no air in his lungs. He could die here in this hotel room like a hooker on Law and Order. Fuck Rebecca. Fuck Mac. Fuck mom. Fuck dad. Fuck -_

 _His partner thrusts him with greater force, and Dennis gags. He yanks his thoughts away from resentment and tries to focus on not puking on Peter's dick. Mercifully, his partner slows again soon after. Dennis would rather be anywhere but in the moment right now._

 _Dennis bobs his head up and down on Peter's dick, and fondles his balls with a light touch. Maiming or killing Peter to steal his wallet is an option that is on the table here. However, fresh out of jail, Dennis is in no hurry to return. No one would bail him out this time, and his only lawyer would be a public defender. Of course, prostitution is a crime too, but one that would land him much less serious charges. Best to stick with the lesser of two evils._

" _Fuck, I'm gonna cum," Peter says. He pulls out of Dennis's mouth, and aims for his face as he jacks himself off. Peter cums with an animalistic moan, and jizzes on Dennis's cheek. Dennis resists the urge to groan in disgust; he can do it after he gets paid._

 _Dennis gets up off of his sore knees, and wipes off his face with his palm. He rolls down the sleeves of his dress shirt, and rumples his hair into what he hopes is a reasonable look._

" _$200," he says, holding out his hand. Peter zips up his pants, stands up, and grabs his wallet from the nightstand. He flips through it and pulls out the cash._

" _Here you go," he says. Dennis yanks it out of his hand, and shoves it in his pocket._

" _You disgust me," he says as he walks away. "I hope your wife finds out about this and divorces you."_

 _The man flops back down on the bed, spent. "Fuck you, whore."_

 _Dennis storms away, yanks open the door, and slams it behind him. He slumps down on the grimy wall, and sighs. In this position, the swiss army knife in his back pocket presses uncomfortably against his ass. He pulls it out, opens it up and stares at the sharp blade. Then, he turns around and stabs viciously at the wall over and over and over until the blade cracks, snaps, and falls to the floor. He hasn't made a single fucking dent, so he whips out the scissors and stabs them until they break off too. Fuck this wall. Fuck this useless garbage that dares to call itself a knife! He opens up tool after tool after tool and still the institutional cement doesn't yield. When no tools are left, he stabs the wall with the shell of the knife over and over and over and over and over and over and over-_

 _A tear drips down his face and lands on his dress shirt, miraculously clean despite the filthy disgusting savage who degraded him for cash. Dennis wipes his eyes with the back of his hand holding the shell of the swiss army knife. He drops the knife onto the floor, and his hand throbs in its absence._

 _He sobs against the concrete until he hears a cleaning lady whistling to herself down the hall. Then he runs as fast as he can towards the door, thankfully in the opposite direction. He doesn't stop until he reaches his Range Rover in the parking lot. Spent, he falls asleep in the front seat for an hour to the tune of a Bryan Adams CD. "It's Only Love" is playing when he wakes up._

 _Dennis drives home in total silence_

 **2003**

Dennis sleeps fitfully on the bus, full of twitching and whimpers like a small animal. He shivers pitifully in his skimpy clothes. Dee pulls her jacket closer around her when a particularly harsh wind causes a chilly draft to leak into the bus. The kinder thing to do would be to offer him her jacket, but fuck him. If their situations were reversed, he wouldn't share his own clothes.

Several blocks from Dee's hotel, Dennis wakes. He rubs his eyes and says, "Are we there yet?"

"I am," says Dee. "I have no idea where you're going."

Dennis smiles, lazy and tired. "Don't play around, Sweet Dee. I'm coming with you."

The idea is so ridiculous that Dee laughs. "What? No you're not."

A very confused look passes over Dennis's face. "Yes, I am."

"No, you're really not," reiterates Dee. "This was. . .weird and interesting but we're going our separate ways now."

She picks her carry on suitcase off the floor, and puts it on her lap. Dennis's hand clenches around her wrist in a vice grip. He has gone deathly pale.

"Don't leave me alone here, sis," he pleads. "Take me with you."

Dee yanks her hand away.

"Is that what this was all about? You want me to whisk you away from the shitty choices you've made for yourself like I'm a goddamn fairy godmother?"

A little color comes back to Dennis's cheeks as he says, "Like your choices have been any better since you left me! Face it, Dee. You need me!"

Dee stands up, and yanks her bag over her shoulder.

"No, I don't," she says, coldly.

The bus screeches to a halt. Dennis grabs onto her bag. Tears are in his eyes now.

"I need you, Dee," he says.

She slaps his hand away from the bag.

"That's your problem," she says as she walks away. "You're going to have to figure it out for yourself."

"You're a goddamn bitch!" he yells as she gets on the first stair to leave the bus.

"Go to hell, Dennis!" she screams. Dee climbs down the rest of the way; the bus door squeaks shut behind her. The engine revs back to life as the bus drives away.

She doesn't look back to see where it goes.

 **1997**

 _Dee gets out of the hospital on Halloween of 1997. It's five o clock when she's released, and already people are cavorting around in costumes, drinking out of paper bags and flasks, and laughing loudly. She walks the streets of Philadelphia with her head held high, too proud to go home just yet, daring anyone to look at her directly in the eyes. Nobody does; college students weave around her as they hop from bar to bar._

 _Somehow, she ends up at Dennis's frat house. It's quiet; rather than having a party here, the frat brothers must be out bar hopping like the other students. On autopilot, she opens the door, and steps inside. Nobody is in the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, or any of the downstairs bedrooms. Her legs carry her up the stairs to Dennis's bedroom. She doesn't knock before going inside._

 _Dennis is sitting leaned against an empty bookcase, out cold. A flask is resting next to his outstretched palm; a puddle of liquor has leaked into the carpet. His head is lolled over his shoulder. There are cat whiskers painted onto his face, and his pants are tight and made of leather. Clearly, he fooled himself into thinking he was pre-gaming for a party. Judging from the faint stench of vomit coming from his trash can, his plan did not work._

 _Dee sits down next to Dennis, mindful of the liquor puddle. She takes a deep breath, and sighs._

" _I'm leaving Philadelphia," she says._

 _In his stupor, he doesn't respond. She doesn't expect him to._

" _I'm moving to Los Angeles. I can't be here anymore."_

 _Tentatively, she touches his hand._

" _You probably won't see me again until you see me onscreen. Because I'm gonna be a star. I know I can do it."_

 _Dee pulls her hand away, and entwines her fingers in her lap._

" _I know you don't believe me. I'm sure you would say to me right now that I'll fail because I'm too ugly or fat or untalented. All the shitty things you said to me when we were growing up."_

 _She stands up again, and looks down at her brother. From this angle, he looks small, like a child who has fallen asleep in the car by accident._

" _Goodbye, Dennis," she says._

 _He doesn't answer._


End file.
